


Embers in the Hearth: Side Stories

by FourCatProductions



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Forehead Touching, Multi, OC Romance Week, OC Swap, Only One Bed, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-16 15:59:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: Filled prompts for OC Romance Week to celebrate beloved tropes in shamelessly self-indulgent ways. Various ratings (mostly M to E), various characters. Additional tags and credits will be at the beginning of each chapter.





	1. Cat Scratch Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Tags: Khajiit/Khajiit, m/m, PWP, raunchy cat-man on cat-man action. 
> 
> Thanks to Thanatopsiturvy for letting me borrow Azarahd, whom I love dearly.

If there was one thing Azarahd had learned during his time in the Thieves Guild, it was this: in the end, Mercer Frey would always find some way to screw him.

“I do not think that is going to hold both of us,” Dharmash said.

The bed, like the Nightgate Inn itself, had seen better days. Its frame was warped with age, mattress sagging in the middle beneath rough homespun quilts, and it groaned when Azarahd sat down, bouncing experimentally. One of them might have been fine, but it wasn’t meant to hold two full-grown Khajiit in their prime. His lips pulled back from his teeth, ears flattening.

“I suppose we will have to try.”

“Cheap bastard,” Dharmash muttered. Azarahd was inclined to agree – Mercer’s penny-pinching had only gotten worse since Goldenglow. He sunk into the wooden chair in the corner and started stripping off his wet boots, his footpads unpleasantly damp beneath his socks.

They were on their way to Dawnstar, but it was near a week’s ride from Riften, and so Mercer had arranged for them to stay at the Nightgate on the way in. If he had known what Mercer’s ‘arrangements’ entailed, he would have taken pains to ensure that they had a second room, but he hadn’t, and now the little inn was full up for the night. The snow was flurrying hard outside, wind raking its nails across the windowpanes, and no traveler wanted to be caught outside in such weather. Azarahd changed out of his armor and bathed while Dharmash made himself scarce, hanging their dripping cloaks from the peg by the door and setting their boots by the fire to dry. The room itself was small, and the bed took up most of one side, taunting him. Azarahd changed into fresh clothes, grooming his whiskers absently while he considered the situation. Now that he was looking again, it wasn’t as small as he’d originally thought. As long as they huddled close –

“Here.” A plate was shoved under his nose, a slice of rabbit pie steaming in its center. Dharmash’s strange eyes glittered down at him. “Eat.”

Azarahd didn’t know Dharmash very well. No one did. He’d joined the Guild a few months ago, and the only thing anyone could get out of him was that he’d come to Skyrim with one of the caravans a year ago and left shortly after to seek his fortune. He was a little shorter than Azarahd, but he gave off the impression of being taller, and he had strange, sleek fur the color of a crow’s wing, ringed with gray at the tip of his tail. He was polite and soft-spoken and when he smiled it was like the edge of a knife. Azarahd had no idea how to feel about him, but whenever Dharmash looked at him, his fur prickled, and now was no exception; when he glanced up from his meal, Dharmash was watching him from the bed, eyes half-lidded. They were such an odd shade of blue, his eyes, so pale they were nearly white, and they examined Azarahd with keen interest, pupils wide in the low light. An alarmed heat curled in Azarahd’s belly.

“What?” he asked, sharp, and Dharmash cocked his head, long ears twitching. They were notched and scarred, with two tiny gold rings in each one that shimmered whenever he turned his head.

“Are you nervous?”

Azarahd laughed. It sounded forced, even to him. “Why do you think I’m nervous?”

Dharmash smiled. One of his fangs was longer than the other, and sharper, bone-white against his fur and gums, and something clenched low in Azarahd’s stomach. The fur along his spine rippled.

“No reason,” Dharmash said. “My mistake.”

 

He awoke with a start, heart pounding, and for a second there was no air in the room. A hand seized his shoulder, digging into his tunic and fur, and it all came rushing back. He gasped, back bowing, then coughed, taking in huge gasping breaths while his claws snagged in the sheets.

“Breathe,” Dharmash said, voice rough with sleep. “It was only a dream.”

Right. He was crammed into a single bed at the Nightgate Inn, quilt tangled around them while snow fell thick and muffled against the windowpane. He was fine. He breathed in again, hard, his chest rising and falling. Dharmash’s breath scorched the fur on his cheek.

“This is the third time you have woken Dharmash up with your thrashing.” Normally he spoke Common almost as well as Azarahd, but sleep had thickened his accent, his speech slipping back into the pidgin Common that was a hallmark of the caravan circuit. It shouldn’t have sounded as attractive as it did, but then again, it’d been a long time since Azarahd had sought out the company of his own people. Too long, maybe. “What is it?”

“Sometimes I have trouble sleeping.” The pillow was thin, but warm where it covered Azarahd’s face. He buried his cheek against it, shoulders hunched. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

The silence stretched out between them, so long he thought Dharmash had fallen back asleep. Even though they’d tried to put as much space between their bodies as possible, there was no avoiding it, and the heat at his back grew; he gasped as a strong arm looped around his waist, and a rough tongue licked a hot stripe up the back of his neck, dragging through his fur.

“What – “

“Shh. I will help you sleep.” Dharmash’s hand slid under his tunic, claws digging into the fur on his belly, rubbing his chin on the top of Azarahd’s head while his tongue dragged over Azarahd’s ears in broad strokes. Azarahd’s tail lashed between them, uncertain, his back arching, and then Dharmash grabbed his tail and bit him, teeth sinking into the scruff of his neck.

The relief was immediate. It rolled over Azarahd in a blissful wave, and he went kitten-limp in Dharmash’s arms, a purr bubbling up helplessly in his throat. Dharmash’s grip loosened, but he kept his teeth on Azarahd’s neck, holding him close, like he was worried Azarahd might make a break for it. Not that Azarahd could move. All of his limbs had gone to wet sand, his muscles loose and pliant. Nobody had reduced him to such a state with so little effort in some time. All his recent lovers had lacked the proper equipment. He writhed in Dharmash’s arms, achingly hard, and one of Dharmash’s hands closed around his throat – not choking him, just reminding him that he could. His hips nudged against Azarahd’s ass.

“Good,” he said, voice a rumble against the back of Azarahd’s neck, and then he shifted and Azarahd was flipped onto his stomach, face in the pillow. Dharmash bore down on him, straddling the backs of his thighs. He blanketed Azarahd, his body hard and impossibly warm, pinning his wrists to the mattress while he licked and nuzzled Azarahd’s ears, rolling his hips against the spot where Azarahd’s ass met his thigh. Azarahd bit into the pillow to muffle a moan, fabric tearing, and then Dharmash let go of his wrists and sat up, strong hand wrapping around the base of his tail and tugging. Azarahd’s hips went up of their own accord, his cock throbbing, and Dharmash yanked his trousers down with his free hand.

“I don’t see how this is supposed to help me sleep,” he said, hoarse, and Dharmash chuckled. His fingers combed through the fur on the back of Azarahd’s thigh, inches from where he really wanted them.

“When I am done, you will sleep well into morning.” He caught the tip of Azarahd’s ear between his teeth, lifting his tail firmly, and Azarahd’s legs fell apart, unconscious and wanton. Outside, the wind cried, the snow falling harder still, but inside he was burning up, hotter than the embers in the hearth as Dharmash spread him wide.

“You taste good,” he murmured, “ _vari satil_ ,” and then that rough tongue was on him again and Azarahd forgot about nightmares and Mercer and everything but the hands on his hips, pinning him down while Dharmash took what he wanted. The bed creaked and the wind howled and the job awaited in Dawnstar, but inside, all had been stripped away. He arched his back, clawing at the bed, and Dharmash rose to meet him, clasping Azarahd’s throat.

“Go ahead, little alley cat.” The words were little more than a growl, and the wet head of his cock rutted just under the base of Azarahd’s tail, slicking him open. “Show me how much you want it.”

“Might hear us,” Azarahd panted, hips thrusting back against Dharmash despite his words, and Dharmash chuckled, grip tightening.

“We are the only ones foolish enough to be awake at this hour,” he whispered. “To them, it is only the wind.”

His hand clamped down over Azarahd’s muzzle, teeth sinking into the side of his neck. Azarahd yowled into his palm. The sheets were going to be filthy by morning and he was going to have to sleep in the worst of it, but right then he didn’t really care. He let himself be rutted, squirming against the mattress while Dharmash nuzzled the back of his neck and ears and made pleased noises deep in his throat.

They didn’t fuck, exactly – there was nothing on hand to ease the way – but Dharmash rubbed himself against Azarahd in long, lazy strokes, the head of his cock teasing Azarahd’s hole whenever he moved. “I think about this at times,” he murmured in Azarahd’s ear, his hand between their bodies, fisting his length. “Having you.” Azarahd arched beneath him, snarling, and Dharmash bit his shoulder to quiet him. “This is not what I imagined, but it is good enough. For now.”

Azarahd ground his hips into the mattress. His cock ached so fiercely he thought he might pass out from neglect, but perversely, he didn’t want it to end. “What did you imagine?”

“What you would look like when I fucked you,” Dharmash said, and grabbed the base of his tail again. Azarahd’s hips went up, even as he yelped in protest, and then Dharmash’s arm moved faster behind him and he jerked and shuddered, come splattering onto Azarahd’s exposed hole. Azarahd’s mouth fell open, claws scrabbling uselessly at the sheets, and then Dharmash shoved a hand between his legs and grabbed his cock with wet fingers. “What you look like when you come.”

It was so good it almost hurt. Azarahd bucked into the touch, his legs spreading wider still, and Dharmash’s other hand went around his hip and urged him up, until he was on his knees, on display, his cock hanging heavy and vulnerable between his thighs. He tried to keep quiet, but then Dharmash started stroking him again, long, slow, firm strokes that wrung involuntary purrs and groans from his throat, and there was nothing he could do but ride it out, muscles bunched and teeth bared. His eyes were closed, but he could hear the smile in Dharmash’s voice when he pressed his muzzle to Azarahd’s ear.

“ _Vari satil_ ,” he said again, soft as silk. “Come. I would taste you again.”

That was all it took. A few more strokes, rough pumps of his callused hand, and Azarahd was moaning out his orgasm into the pillow, hips jerking messily. Most of it got on Dharmash’s hands, striping his black fur white, while some dripped onto the sheets, and then Dharmash was coaxing him over onto his back so he could lap up the rest, tongue dragging over the head of his cock. Azarahd wanted to protest, but his entire body had gone limp again, a kind of boneless exhaustion sweeping over him, and all he could do was pant and squirm weakly while Dharmash cleaned them both up, inch by meticulous inch.

“Sleep now,” he said, and licked Azarahd’s cheek. “I will wake you when it is time.”

 _Yes,_ Azarahd tried to say, but his mouth was beyond working now. The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was Dharmash’s arm wrapping around his chest, teeth pressing lightly into the back of his neck, and the distant howl of the wind.


	2. Honor Among Thieves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Khajiit/Redguard, m/m, fake dating trope, rated T for thievery and make-out-style shenanigans. Thank you again to Thanatopsiturvy for letting me borrow Azarahd a second time.

There was no such thing as a quiet night in Whiterun. It simply wasn’t in her bones; she was too big, too _alive_ to be at rest for long. Even close to midnight, most shutters stayed open, voices and light pouring through the windows and into the town square. It wasn’t at all like Riften. Azarahd wasn’t sure how he felt about it. There was always someone staring, for one.

He was staying at the Bannered Mare on his way back from Markarth, where he’d spent a couple of days framing a Silver-Blood overseer at the mines for theft. Neither an easy living, nor an honest one, but there was little else for a Khajiit to do if he wanted to get by. If he weren’t Dragonborn, they wouldn’t have allowed him into the city in the first place. A pair of patrolling guards lingered nearby, gazes burning into him from behind faceless helmets. He made sure they could see him watching before they moved on, and spat at their passing backs. He’d been intending to get some sleep, but the inn was still packed to the teeth with merry-makers and drunkards, so he’d stepped out to get some peace and quiet instead. Not that it helped – he could still hear the bard plinking about on his lute through the open windows. Grumbling, he cut across the square and up the street to the austere stone steps that led to the Wind District, where Whiterun’s wealthier citizens made their home. It was softer up there, bathed in shadow, and everything smelled like lavender. It reminded him of home, though he couldn’t say why. Nothing in Skyrim was like Elsweyr. Not even the Khajiit.

Thankfully, there he found freedom from revelry, all the houses slumbering dreamlike in the summer air. Good, for nights like these when sleep wouldn’t come. Azarahd wandered past the empty pavilion, where the ancient statue of Talos stood guard, solemn and watchful. For all of Balgruuf’s insistence on neutrality, he was still a Nord to his bones, and part of Azarahd admired his defiance. Anything that spat in the face of the Thalmor, covertly or otherwise. The god-man’s sightless eyes tracked him as he passed. The priests of Arkay tended a garden next to the Hall of the Dead – a quiet spot meant for reflection, shrouded with mountain flowers and dragon’s tongue – and it was there he meant to gather his thoughts, until he rounded the stone wall shielding the Battle-Born family mansion from view and collided with something solid as it tripped into him at an alarming speed.

 _Someone,_ rather.

“Shit,” the hooded figure swore as they disentangled themselves, a package clutched under one arm. It was a distinctly male voice, but his face was hidden by leather and shadow, shoulders drawn up around his ears. “Sorry, didn’t see you there. ‘Scuse me.” He made to scurry past, shielding his bundle, but Azarahd had already seen the familiar design of his armor, caught in the torchlight’s edge.

“Guild work, or unaffiliated?” The man spun back around to face him, free hand straying to the dagger in his belt, and Azarahd put his hands up, spreading his fingers to show he was unarmed. “Relax, friend. Just curious. I’ve never seen you before.”

“I’ve never seen you before, either,” the man said, but he moved his hand back to his chest, clutching his package protectively. “Who are you?”

“My name is Azarahd. I’m… a friend of Brynjolf’s.”

“Azarahd?” the man said, startled, and drew back his hood. “Really?” Up near the bridge to the keep, torches flared, the distant hiss of flint and tinder sparking. The sound of boots hitting stone followed. Panic flashed across the man’s face. “Shit,” he said again, and snatched Azarahd’s wrist. “Come on, quick.” And even though he had a thousand other things he could have been doing, Azarahd let himself be pulled into an alleyway just off the main thoroughfare, sheltered by the aqueducts overhead. Here were the usual trappings of squatters and the homeless, pilfered barrels and makeshift straw pallets beneath a grotty lean-to, and it was here that the man stored his bundle for safekeeping, tucking it beneath an overturned barrel. His hood was still down, and Azarath could see now that he was Redguard, with a smooth boyish face and locs gathered into a tie at the nape of his neck. Gold rings glittered in his ears and nose. Definitely new, definitely unfamiliar, but far from hard to look at. He straightened up, and when he caught Azarahd looking, he grinned, eyebrows cocked.

“Well then, Azarahd,” he said. “Could I ask you a favor, from one guildmate to another?”

“That would depend on the favor.”

The man glanced off the side, where the faint glow of fire was starting to grow bolder, and Azarahd’s ears pricked up at the footfalls accompanying it. “Those guards are going to run past here any minute,” he said. “Want to help me throw them off the scent?”

Azarahd considered.

“What did you have in mind?”

To their credit, the guards didn’t take as long to find them as Azarahd had expected. He still wished they’d taken longer after all.

“Hey!” This was accompanied by the dull smack of a pommel against mortar, presumably to get their attention. “What in Oblivion is going on here?”

“Can’t a man get a bit of privacy around here?” Azarahd’s companion complained, which didn’t sound much like complaining at all; Azarahd supposed it was hard to sound unhappy when you had your legs wrapped around someone’s waist like a particularly stubborn limpet. Both of his hands were shoved under Azarahd’s tunic, combing through the fur on his chest. Up until a second ago, he’d also been nibbling on one of Azarahd’s ears, which had been pleasant enough to make him forget there was a reason for it. “What do you lot want?”

“Erm,” the guard said, flummoxed. Both of the other guards accompanying him appeared similarly stymied. Azarahd ignored them, ducking his head to lick at his new friend’s neck, which earned him a delighted noise and set the first guard off again. “Oi!” The sword clanged against stone again, exasperated. “Don’t start that up again. What are you doing back here?”

“What does it look like?” the man shot back. He was slurring his words now, a passable imitation of drunkenness – _nothing to see here, just two of Skyrim’s undesirables groping each other in a quiet alley after one too many drinks._ The guard made a disgusted noise and sheathed his sword, clearly having decided he was wasting his time.

“We’re investigating a theft. Either of you see anyone pass this way recently?”

“No,” Azarahd said, which was true.

“Wasn’t really paying attention,” the man added, gleefully lecherous, and Azarahd had to stifle his laughter. The guard’s face went somewhere between red and purple, which wasn’t an improvement.

“Move it along, then,” he snapped, and gestured at the other two to clear out. “Or I’ll have to cite you both for public indecency.”

“Fine, fine,” the man drawled, and the guard left them be with a final warning look and pointed finger, eager to return to the hunt. Their footsteps faded away, tromping back towards the pavilion, and as soon as they were out of earshot the man slumped back against the wall, like all the air had gone out of him. “Thanks,” he said. “I almost can’t believe they bought it, if I’m being honest.”

“My pleasure.” Azarahd’s hands were still on the man’s shoulders. He went to move them, but the thighs around his waist tightened, and the man grinned up at him.

“You in a hurry?”

Azarahd was not, in fact, in any sort of hurry at all.

“I just realized,” he said some time later, when things between them had slowed, rolling his hips lazily while he nuzzled and played at biting the man’s neck, a prickle of teeth and claws to make his breathing change. “You never told me your name.”

“I didn’t, did I?” The man pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, fingers kneading into Azarahd’s fur. “It’s Jal.”

“Jal,” Azarahd repeated, and it turned into a purr as clever hands cupped his ass, drawing him closer still. “How did you know my name?”

“Guild’s not that big. Word gets around if the Dragonborn is part of your outfit.” One hand slid lower, and Azarahd saw stars. “I see why Brynjolf speaks so highly of you.”

“He,” Azarahd said, or tried to say, followed by, “ _ah_ ,” and a sharp hiss of breath as the hands migrated in front to slip between his thighs. Jal’s eyes gleamed.

“I’ll tell you later,” he said.


	3. The Right Price

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Serana/OC, f/f, 1st person POV, role reversal, rated T. More like pre-femslash than actual romance, but I liked the idea of world-weary vampire Evita meeting opportunistic bounty hunter Serana, so we're rolling with it.

All blood tastes the same.

Oh, sure, there are some differences – a well-fed noble is easier to choke down than a junkie who hasn’t eaten since Turdas – but they don’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. It’s like having to eat porridge for breakfast every morning. The Emperor’s personal chef could wheel up out of the blue and declare that he’s made you a bowl out of wishes and topped it with gold, but in the end, it’s still porridge you’re shoveling down.

Trust me, I’ve tasted a lot of it over the past few decades – blood, not porridge. I should know.

Seventy isn’t old for a vampire. Comparatively speaking, I’m an infant. But seventy is long enough for most of your family to either die off or lose touch, and before you know it, you’re the only one left, and solitude just isn’t as enjoyable when it’s not voluntary. You start to reminisce, and then, to forget – your mother’s laugh, your father’s eyes, the summers you and your brother spent running through the woods surrounding your village, catching tadpoles and learning to hunt. You cling to the things that remind you it was all real. Or try to, anyway, which is why I’m here in Falkreath, waiting in a dingy inn for a woman who may or may not be able to help me.

Falkreath is a town full of people waiting for the grave. Before I turned, I’d never set foot in the Dead Man’s Drink, but now I’m about as dead as I’m likely to get for some time, and every establishment in the city has a similar theme in their naming convention, like a private joke outsiders aren’t privy to. It’s not the friendliest place, but people mind their business, and the ale is decent – better than Riften, cheaper than Whiterun. Not that I’m capable of getting drunk anymore, but it reminds me of when I could. I tip the barmaid to keep them coming.

“I hear you’re looking for me,” the woman says.

I pause, glass halfway to my lips. A second ago, the seat across from me had been empty. The woman waits for an answer. Her face is half-shrouded in the dim bar, hood pulled low, but beneath it there’s a visible slash of pale skin, lips pink and chin pointed. Something about her seems familiar, though I can’t say why. She’s definitely human – I can smell it on her – but there’s something else there, too, something that lingers like old perfume. Mostly I’m just impressed that she managed to sneak up on me.

“Depends. Are you Serana?”

She tips back her hood, and dark hair spills out, falling around her shoulders. Her eyes are very blue. “At your service.”

“You don’t look like a bounty hunter,” I say. Not the brightest response, but in my defense, she doesn’t. Her smooth skin and well-made clothing wouldn’t have been out of place in Skyrim’s High Court. She flashes me a condescending little smirk, tight and close-lipped.

“Appearances can be deceiving at times.”

“Fair enough.” I take her hand reluctantly when she holds it out to shake, but she doesn’t comment on how cold my skin is. Most people do. “Evita.”

“What can I do for you, Evita?”

My name sounds nice on her tongue. Maybe because it’s the first time I’ve heard another voice say it in at least a couple of years. I clear my throat. “I hear you’re the one to talk to about tracking down lost and stolen goods.”

She nods. “Chances are, if it’s missing, I can find it.”

I can sense the _but_ hovering at the end of her sentence. “Doesn’t come cheap, I’d imagine.”

“We all have to make a living.”

“Money’s no object.” I don’t need food or drink, and any unoccupied cave will do for sleeping quarters in a pinch, which means I’ve accumulated a small fortune over the years. It’s strange to think how much it mattered when I was human. “Get the job done, and I’ll pay whatever you want.”

Surprise widens her eyes – only for a second, but I catch it before she smooths it away. “Must be important, if money’s no object.”

The square of parchment in the pocket of my surcoat is no bigger than my palm. It rustles when I had it to her, half-folded. Serana looks at me, puzzled, but takes it. I’m no artist, but I’d managed to sketch out a passable depiction of a necklace, its circular pendant chipped along the bottom. “Here.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, but I’m going to need more than this to go on.”

“There’s not much to tell. It’s old, bronze, has a big chip right there. Has a little amethyst in the center.” Used to, anyway – I wouldn’t have been surprised if the thief had pried it out and sold it already. It wasn’t worth much, but in the right hands it would be enough for a decent meal and a night’s sleep at a good inn. Serana folds up the parchment again and slips it into her cloak.

“Usually, the things people hire me to track down are more…”

“Valuable?”

Her lips twitch. “Yes.”

“Not interested, then?”

“I didn’t say that.” Her eyes flicker across my face, curious. I have no idea what she sees. It’s been a long time since I bothered with my own reflection. “When was it stolen?”

“A couple of weeks ago, in Markarth.” Fucking cursed city, that one, right down to its tainted bronze bones. Things tend to go missing there – possessions, corpses, people – and you’re lucky if that’s all. “I’ve tried tracking it down, but I have no idea who took it. Which is where you come in, I guess.”

“I guess so.” Serana tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Am I allowed to ask what’s so special about this necklace?”

“Ask, yeah. Can’t guarantee you’ll get an answer, though.”

“Ah.” Another twitch of her lips. This one is almost a proper smile. “I’m going to need a finder’s fee upfront. This one is going to require some digging.”

I could tell her. Maybe not the whole story, the one where a mangled family heirloom is the last connection I have to a life that no longer exists, but parts of it. I could tell her that it belonged to my mother. I could tell her my father gave it to her one year for her birthday, when the fields of Glenumbra were in full and glorious bloom, and they kissed each other like teenagers in the sunshine when they thought I couldn’t see them. For a fleeting second, there was a part of me that _wanted_ to tell her; something in her eyes made me think she might understand, impossible as it was.

I could tell her. I could.

I flag the barmaid to bring more ale.

This time, she brings a second flagon, and sets it in front of Serana, foam crowning its rim. I nudge mine against hers before taking a sip. “Like I said. Money’s no object. You turn up the necklace, I’ll pay whatever you think is fair.”

“Generous of you,” Serana says, sounding amused. “This doesn’t count as a finder’s fee, by the way.”

The satisfaction I get from her expression when I plunk the coin purse on the table between us is worth every septim. “Generous enough for you?”

The purse is weighed and deemed suitable; it disappears beneath her cloak. She’s looking at me more intently now, eyebrows drawn. “Who are you? Really.”

“No one,” I say, which is the truth. I’m no one. I exist on the fringes, in the space between waking and dreaming that humans rarely see. When I go, whether by my own hand or someone else’s, there will be nobody to remember me. It’s freeing, in a way. “I just want the necklace back.”

Serana’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s that look in her eye again – something worn and weathered, something ageless, and I’m suddenly worried that she’s found a way to pluck the thoughts from my head. She’s looking at me like she sees me, _really_ sees me, and discomfort is brewing low in my belly – and then she really does smile, and if I’d still needed to breathe, my breath probably would have caught in my throat.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says.


	4. Through Your Windows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Rikke/OC, f/f, modern AU, tropey nonsense, rated T/M (no smut, but suggestive themes).
> 
> Finally got this sucker out. Soft modern AUs forever.

Rikke didn’t meet her new neighbor for three months. This wasn’t unexpected; she worked long hours, and had seen the house’s previous occupants, the Langstroms, only a handful of times in the ten years they’d lived there. One day she’d come home to see a moving truck in their driveway and a ‘For Sale’ sign hammered into the lawn, and less than a month later, the new girl had moved in. Rikke had glimpsed her once on her way home from a particularly grueling overnight shift, and the only impression she’d retained was freckles – lots and lots of freckles. Mostly she just saw the car. It was a boxy little sky-blue hybrid, its bumper plastered with “Save Nirn” and “I Brake for Spriggans” stickers in bold, colorful font. Rikke hated it. It even had fuzzy pink dice hanging from the review mirror, like its owner was determined to offend her with its very existence. Still, she kept it to herself – _your car is an eyesore_ wasn’t going to make for a good first impression. But somehow they kept missing each other, and it wasn’t until a few months later that they finally met face-to-face.

It was one of Rikke’s rare days off, a blissfully cool and ordinary Thursday. She celebrated by allowing herself an extra half-hour of sleep and a second cup of coffee, then sequestered herself in her home office to catch up on emails. She was halfway through a blistering response to Erikur’s latest faulty proposal when the knock at the front door came, echoing down the hall. She ignored it – she was on a roll, and castigating the man on CC’d emails to Tullius was one of her few remaining joys in life – but then there was a second, more insistent series of knocks. She growled and slammed her laptop shut.

No one greeted her when she opened the door, but there was a package on the stoop, wrapped in plain brown parchment paper. Rikke picked it up, turning it over in her hands. She didn’t recall ordering anything, let alone anything quite so squashy. It felt like clothing, though she couldn’t be sure. She turned it again, and there was the label, addressed to one Rhiannon Amorell, whose house number put her directly next door. Rikke sighed and went to put on her shoes. Skyrim’s courier service was really going downhill these days.

She was originally planning to leave it at the front door, but to her surprise, the terrible car was in the driveway, freshly-washed and polished. It had acquired new accessories in the form of nirnroot window decals, which Rikke steadfastly ignored on her way up to the porch. She’d never noticed before, but it was absolutely overflowing with plants, greenery spilling out of their pots and cheery red and gold flowers blooming in the planter mounted to the windowsill. She side-stepped a cluster of succulents, and knocked. Faint strains of classical music drifted through the open window; when she knocked again, they screeched to a distant halt.

“Coming!” someone called.

Rikke was prepared to be annoyed. She wasn’t prepared for the big brown doe eyes that met hers as the door swung open.

“Hello,” the other woman said, sounding somewhat out of breath. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, short and plump with auburn curls struggling to escape the bun twisted on top of her head. Her ruffled apron was caked with flour, more of it dusting her freckled cheeks and bare arms. “Can I help you?”

 _How is it possible that you look like this when your car looks like that,_ was Rikke’s first thought; _Get it together_ was the second. “Are you Rhiannon Amorell?”

“Guilty.” The smile faltered. “You’re not from the Homeowner’s Association, are you?”

“No. Just your next-door neighbor. Courier delivered your mail to me, so I thought I should finally introduce myself.” She stuck out her hand. “Rikke.”

“Oh, thank Mara. I thought that woman from the HOA sent you. Apparently my porch isn’t up to code.” Rhiannon’s hand was soft in Rikke’s, fingers caked with flour. The healer’s sigil tattooed on her wrist shone pale blue in the sun. “Sorry for the mess.”

“It’s fine. And don’t worry about Colette. She’s fussy, but her bark is worse than her bite.” Rikke held up the package. “I think this is yours.”

What was in it, she didn’t know, but Rhiannon clearly did. Pink stained her cheeks and the hollow of her throat as she took it, tucking it behind her back, and Rikke tried not to look like she was curious, even though she was running through the mental checklist of things it could be. Rhiannon coughed.

“Well. Um. Thank you for bringing it over. That was… very kind of you.”

“Not at all.” Talos, but she was even more adorable when she was flustered, and ‘adorable’ wasn’t a word Rikke used often (or ever). “Sorry to interrupt your baking. Smells nice in there.”

“Oh!” Rhiannon smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Gods, I’m sorry. Would you like to come in? I can put the kettle on.”

Rikke was tempted. The scents wafting from the house were divine, and furthermore, it wasn’t every day that beautiful women invited her in for tea. But she still had work to do, and work came first, even on her day off. “I’d like to, but unfortunately I need to get back and put out some fires. Metaphorical fires,” she clarified as Rhiannon’s eyes widened. “Thank you for the offer, though.”

“Of course! Some other time.” A little dimple appeared at the corner of Rhiannon’s mouth, deepening when she smiled. “It was nice to finally meet you, Rikke.”

 

_It was nice to finally meet you, Rikke._

The words stuck with her for the rest of the day, echoing in the back of her head while she finished up with her emails and made phone calls. At least now she knew how someone so young could afford a house on her own; a good healer was always in high demand. For lunch, she made a sandwich and stood in the kitchen while she ate, pretending she wasn’t looking at Rhiannon’s yard through the side window. Even though she’d only moved in three months ago, the garden was already growing wild, its lavender bushes half as tall as the house and lush greenery mingling with snowberry bushes and tundra cotton. As Rikke was finishing her sandwich, Rhiannon came around the corner in a grubby t-shirt and jeans, toting a watering can. She saw Rikke looking and waved. Rikke waved back, somewhat awkwardly. She wondered again what was in that package.

Determined to avoid further distraction, she locked herself in her office and worked straight through dinner, only surfacing long enough to use the bathroom and pour herself a glass of wine. Tullius wanted the revised expense reports by Morndas, and of course the one time she let Aldis do it, he looked at last quarter’s numbers. Why she bothered, she didn’t know. She was still grumbling about it when she closed up shop for the night and wandered down the hall to her bedroom, nursing her second cup of wind. Her blinds were open, a stripe of pale moonlight falling across the hardwood floor. She went to close them, glanced up, and almost dropped her glass.

The master bedrooms of both houses faced each other, but Rikke had never given it much thought, since the Langstroms always kept their curtains shut and windows bolted. Now, though, both were flung wide open, and in their center, a vision in lace. A full-length mirror stood next to a chest of drawers, and Rhiannon turned in front of it, examining her reflection. She wore nothing but a bra and panties, flimsy seafoam confections that clung to every curve and made Rikke’s mouth go dry. The underwear tied on both sides with little bows, ready to slide off with a single tug, and she’d taken her hair down so that it spilled over her shoulders and down her back in auburn waves. She frowned, tugging at the waistband and prodding her stomach self-consciously, and a bolt of unexpected heat shot down Rikke’s spine. It was visceral, and immediate; she wanted to bury her fingers in that wild hair, taste the freckles on Rhiannon’s shoulders and thighs and see if her skin was as soft as it looked. She should close the blinds, she knew. It wasn’t right to stare, and yet, she stood transfixed, her hand frozen on the cord. Maybe Rhiannon caught a glimpse of her in the mirror, or maybe she sensed someone was watching her – whatever the case, she spun around, and their eyes met, seconds before Rikke yanked the blinds shut so hard she almost broke them.

Without the moonlight pouring through the window, the room was dark, and she pressed her hand over her chest, where her heart beat faster than it had in years. Her throat was still dry. She finished her wine, then rinsed her mouth out and brushed her teeth before crawling into bed and pulling the sheets up to her neck. They were cool against her overheated skin. She had to work early, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t sleep for a long time.

**\---**

“You need to get laid.”

Rikke paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “Are you offering?”

“If I was, you’d know,” Irileth said, and signaled for the waiter to come refill her glass. They were having lunch at the same place they’d been having lunch every Fredas for the last five years – The Cornerclub, a casual dining spot exactly halfway between their buildings. The waiter departed, and Irileth fixed Rikke with a look, red eyes unblinking. “You’re even more wound up than usual. I can tell.”

“I’m not ‘wound up’,” Rikke lied. Last night’s events had been playing themselves on a loop since she woke up – seafoam lace, bright hair against pale skin, Rhiannon’s startled expression as she shut the blinds – and it was starting to drive her to distraction. She’d already sent Tullius the wrong set of reports and spilled coffee on her trousers, and the memory of her neighbor’s ample rear had surfaced unexpectedly when she sat down to lunch, causing her to stumble and nearly put her elbow in the butter. She’d never considered herself a fan of lingerie, but apparently her libido hadn’t gotten the memo. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

“Rikke, I’ve known you for ten years, and we were a couple for two of them. Do us both a favor and don’t try to bullshit me.” Irileth’s horker and ash yam stew was still steaming hot, but she ate it without reservation, blotting her lips with her napkin between bites. “When was the last time you went on a date?”

Rikke stabbed at her salad, spearing lettuce and bits of chicken. “That,” she said, “is none of your business.” She hadn’t been on a date since they’d broken up, but Irileth didn’t need to know that. Irileth’s expression suggested that she already knew, and was choosing not to say anything out of respect.

“Perhaps you should consider it.” She hesitated, and Rikke could hear what she wasn’t saying in the silence. _You’re lonely._ Silverware and ceramic clinked in the background, something sizzling distantly in the kitchen.

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. Really.”

“You were ten minutes late, and you almost put creamer in your water.”

They locked eyes across the table. Irileth’s lips twitched, and after a second Rikke exhaled and looked away. “Fine. I’ve been a little… tense. Nothing a good session at the gym won’t fix.”

“Mhmm.”

“Look, just because you and Balgruuf finally quit pretending you weren’t madly in love with each other doesn’t mean all of us are destined for domestic bliss.”

Irileth didn’t blush – she was far too dignified for that sort of thing – but her eyes strayed to her left hand for a second, where a gold ring glittered on her finger, set with chips of ruby. “We’re not domestic.”

“You went to a bed-and-breakfast last weekend,” Rikke said. “You brought me back artisan jelly.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Irileth said pointedly. “I don’t recall saying anything about playing house with someone. I said you need a good tumble.” Now it was Rikke’s turn to give her a look, which Irileth ignored, tapping her chin. “What about that cute bartender who gave you a free drink the last time we went to the Mare? The redhead.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I don’t need to be set up. If I find someone I want, I’ll handle it myself.”

“And there’s really no one you want,” Irileth said. “Even after all this time?”

Auburn hair shimmered in the back of Rikke’s mind, falling over freckled cleavage. “I don’t know,” she said.

**\---**

She wasn’t sure how she was going to face Rhiannon again, but it turned out not to matter; she was cleaning the kitchen the following afternoon when Rhiannon herself turned up on the front steps, wearing a pretty green sundress with a basket slung over her arm.

“Hi,” she said when Rikke opened the door. “Do you like muffins?”

This wasn’t the question Rikke had anticipated. “It depends on what kind.”

Rhiannon opened the lid, and the smell of freshly-baked goods wafted forth, reminding Rikke she’d skipped breakfast again. “I have blueberry, apple cinnamon, and lemon poppyseed.”

“All of those sound delicious,” Rikke was forced to admit, and stepped aside. “Don’t mind the mess. You caught me in the middle of cleaning.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. I can come back later, if you’d rather.”

“You’re fine.” Rikke led her to the kitchen, where a half-washed pile of dishes sat in the sink, and motioned to the table. “Would you like a drink?” She was aware that she was acting oddly formal, her speech stilted, but she was both wholly unprepared for the encounter and unwilling to admit defeat. Rhiannon set the basket down.

“Whatever you have is fine. I don’t want to be a bother.” Her skirt swished when she sat, crossing her legs at the ankle. Her toenails were painted pink. “I also brought some bread, in case you’re not a sweets person.”

“Kind of you.” Rikke filled two glasses with water and brought them to the table, setting one in front of her guest. “Is that what you were baking the other day?”

She was straying into dangerous territory, but Rhiannon only nodded. “Stress-baking. My job can be… demanding, and it helps me relax.” She laughed a little, her hand lingering protectively over her stomach. “As you can probably tell.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Rikke said, and had to bite her tongue to keep _you’re beautiful_ from spilling out. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing she should say during her second-ever conversation with someone. Rhiannon’s cheeks went a little pink, the same half-frightened look from the other night creeping into her eyes, and Rikke sighed. Might as well get it over with. “Listen, while you’re here, I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize?”

“For what happened the other day. It was accidental, but it doesn’t make my behavior any less appropriate.”

“No, please.” Rhiannon looked even more flustered now, the strap of her dress sliding down her shoulder. She tugged it back into place, but not before Rikke registered that her bra was the same shade of pale pink as her nails. “It was my fault. I should have checked to see if the curtains were closed, I just… wasn’t thinking.”

“Still. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

“Well… thank you.” Rhiannon took a sip of water. “Really, though, it’s alright. It was just bad timing. That package you brought over – “

She cut herself off abruptly, taking another long drink of water, but Rikke’s curiosity had already been piqued. “What about it?”

“It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

“I very much about that.” Rikke sipped her own drink, wetting her lips. “But you’re not obligated to tell me, either.” She wasn’t expecting an answer, and was surprised when she got one.

“My therapist thinks I need to be kinder to myself. Practice affirmations, buy myself nice things, romance myself a bit. It’s silly, but she’s rarely wrong, so.” Rhiannon took one of the muffins out of the basket and delicately peeled the wrapper off, not looking at Rikke. “I bought some lingerie, to… I don’t know. Try and feel a bit more confident, I suppose. Muffin?”

Rikke took it. Blueberries exploded on her tongue when she bit into it, sweet and tart all at once. “This is excellent,” she said once she’d swallowed, relieved she didn’t have to feign politeness. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Some of the tension seemed to leave Rhiannon when she smiled, folding her hands in her lap. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have dumped all that on you. You’re just easy to talk to.”

This, more than anything, gave Rikke pause. Nobody had ever accused her of being easy to talk to. “I am?”

“I think so.” Rhiannon fiddled with the hem of her dress, thumb smoothing over the fabric. “Is that weird?”

“No. Just unexpected.” Rikke blamed the muffin for her next question, distracted as she was by hunger. “Did it work?”

“Did what work?”

“The lingerie. Did it make you feel more confident?”

It was absolutely none of her business, and she nearly said as much, but then Rhiannon sat back in her chair and considered, freckled face thoughtful. “I think so.” The hem of her dress shifted higher on her thighs when she stretched out her legs. “At least, in some respects. And sometimes it’s nice to wear something pretty, don’t you think?”

“I’m not much for it, myself,” Rikke said, doing her best not to stare. It took much more self-control than she would have liked. “But I can appreciate it on others.”

Too late, she realized what she’d said. She also realized that she’d forgotten what it was like to feel that spark with another person until it was happening for the first time in years, a little frisson of lightning down her spine when their eyes met. Rhiannon bit her lip.

“Did you?” she asked, soft and a little shy, her face flushing again. “Appreciate them.”

The clock mounted on the wall was ticking too loud, bouncing around in Rikke’s ears, the second hand moving in time with her pulse. For a moment she thought she must have misheard, but no, Rhiannon was still looking at her expectantly, and the memories she’d been trying to suppress came flooding back in excruciating detail. “They were… very nice.” It came out rougher than she intended. Almost a growl. “From what I saw.”

Rhiannon swung one leg over the other, crossing them at the knee, and Rikke caught a glimpse of something soft and pink beneath her dress that matched the bra. “I’m glad,” she said. She’d gone slightly breathless, her voice catching in a way that had Rikke wondering what else might make her sound like that. “It’s good to have a second opinion sometimes.”

It had been a long time since Rikke had done this particular dance – not so long that she’d forgotten entirely, but the steps were hazy. Was this just flirting, or an invitation for something more? Should she ask Rhiannon for a drink first? _Did_ Rhiannon drink? Maybe she’d misread her neighbor’s intentions entirely. Maybe she was just looking for validation – certainly nothing wrong with that, wanting to know you were desirable. Too late, she realized that her silence had gone on just a little too long, as Rhiannon’s smile faltered, her face going from pink to red.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and sat up straight in her chair again, uncrossing her legs to press her thighs together tightly. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I just – I thought – “

“You thought right,” Rikke said quickly, before she could get up. “It’s not that.” Rhiannon hesitated, anxiety hovering at the corners of her mouth, and Rikke decided that perhaps a moment of vulnerability and uncertainty deserved one in turn. “I haven’t been with anyone in a long time.”

“You haven’t?” Rhiannon said, and managed to sound genuinely surprised, like she’d taken it for granted that Rikke had admirers lined up around the block. “Really?”

“My job is demanding. It doesn’t leave room for much else.”

Rhiannon nodded. “Mine doesn’t, either. Being on call seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, it’s – “

“Exhausting,” Rikke said, and Rhiannon laughed a little, some of the tension slipping away from her.

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not interested, though.”

“Oh,” Rhiannon said, soft again, and bit her lower lip. It did nothing to hide her smile.

This time, the silence between them was charged with a different sort of tension. They were already sitting next to each other, and when Rhiannon scooted closer, their knees bumped. Her fingers were warm and a little damp when they came to rest on the back of Rikke’s hand, and there was that spark again; when Rikke started to lean in, Rhiannon tilted her face up, soft pink lips parted just the tiniest bit, and then something against the back of Rikke’s arm went from warm to hot and Rhiannon bolted straight out of her chair like someone had set it on fire.

“What’s wrong?” Rikke asked, alarmed.

“ _Work_ ,” Rhiannon said, like she was uttering a curse, and held out her wrist. Her healer’s sigil was glowing, bright blue fading into white and back again. “They’re calling me. It’s an emergency.”

“You’d better go, then,” Rikke told her, and she nodded, guilt crawling across her freckled face.

“I’m sorry. Awful timing, I know.”

“Can’t be helped.” It couldn’t – Rikke knew how it was – but it didn’t change the odd sensation of vertigo she had, like the ground had suddenly fallen out from under her feet. “Don’t feel bad.”

“Too late,” Rhiannon said, with a self-deprecating little chuckle, and smoothed her skirt around her hips, staring down at her feet. “I’ll, um… leave the basket here, if that’s alright. I can come get it later.”

“Of course,” Rikke said, and suddenly the whole thing seemed ludicrous. They barely knew each other. What business did she have, attempting to hook up with someone who was probably half her age? She cleared her throat. “Well… good luck. You know where to find me.”

It was one of the more idiotic things she’d ever said, or so it felt, but Rhiannon just nodded and said goodbye rather distractedly, one hand over her wrist, and then Rikke was alone in her kitchen again, listening to the clock tick just a little too loud as the front door slammed shut.

**\---**

The rest of the day drifted by in a haze. Rikke worked, but her heart wasn’t in it, and her head was filled with pink – pink toenails, pink silk, pink lips. Rhiannon didn’t come back.

It was probably for the best. A complicated entanglement with a neighbor was something to avoid, in case it went sour and they were stuck living next to each other for years to come; the obvious age difference was another potential issue; she wasn’t normally in the business of falling into bed with people the second time she laid eyes on them; and so unraveled Rikke’s thoughts, on and on as she climbed the stairs to the hallway that would take her to her room, long and narrow and dim. She didn’t bother with the lights.

The blinds in her room were still shuttered tight, with only the barest sliver of moonlight creeping through the gap at the bottom. Rikke stared at them from the doorway. The right thing to do would be to get into bed and leave them shut. Her bare feet shushed against the hardwood when she crossed the floor.

One look, then, to satisfy any lingering curiosity.

She’d expected to see the same thing on the other side – locked window, shutters like prison bars. Instead, the window was open, and the light was on, spilling from the lamp all down the side of the house. Rhiannon sat on her bed, reading, but as soon as she saw Rikke she set her book down and hopped to her feet, giving a tentative wave. After a moment, Rikke waved back. Rhiannon’s phone was on the bed, and she scooped it over, thumbs carefully pecking out a message across the screen. A split second later, Rikke’s phone vibrated in her pocket.

_I got your number from the HOA residential list for the district. I hope that’s alright._

A second buzz, while she was still reading the first: _This is Rhiannon, by the way._

Rikke couldn’t help it. She cracked a smile, and some of the weight dissipated from her chest as she typed out a response.

**That’s alright.**

Their eyes met again, and Rhiannon typed something else out, slower this time.

_Can we try this again?_

Rikke read it three times before she managed a nod, and Rhiannon beamed, thumbs flying across the keyboard.

_Close your blinds. Open them again in five minutes._

Significant age difference, Rikke reminded herself. Relative strangers. Unnecessary complications.

She closed the blinds.

Five minutes and an eternity later, she opened them to find an empty room. The lamp had been turned off, and lavender candles burned on either side of the windowsill, more flickering on the dresser and next to the mirror. They cast an ethereal glow over the whole scene, like champagne and gold, and Rikke’s phone went off again.

_You only saw one set. I ordered two._

The screen went dark as Rikke set it neatly on the bed, her heart already hammering in a way it hadn’t since she and Irileth first began dancing around the idea of courtship, and really, there was no reason to be so happy about being in over her head, but that didn’t stop the anticipation curling low in her belly, or the smile tugging at her lips. Maybe stepping out of her comfort zone would prove to be a valuable experiment – after all, she was closer to fifty than forty these days, and if she didn’t start enjoying her life now, then when?

The candles glowed, a whippoorwill cooing softly from the dark silhouettes of the pine trees surrounding them. Rikke sat. Either way, things were about to get a lot more interesting.


	5. Rain Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Forehead Touches, OC/OC, femslash, established relationship, rated G, fluff.
> 
> Nadine Rielle is a delight and belongs to raunchyandpaunchy. Thanks for letting me borrow her, as always.

“What a beautiful day.”

Outside Breezehome, the rain fell in thick gray sheets, sluicing down the windowpane. Inside, the teacups steamed, fragrant, and Nadine smiled as she handed one to Rhiannon.

“Could be worse, I suppose.”

“I’ve always liked this weather best,” Rhiannon said, setting hers to cool on the windowsill. They’d spent the morning curled up in the reading nook, a fire crackling in the hearth and a platter of sweet rolls between them. The occasional clink and clatter of pans drifted up from the kitchen – Lydia preparing lunch, most likely. “It’s so peaceful.”

“It is,” Nadine agreed, sipping her tea. The dog-eared copy of _Night Falls on Sentinel_ on her lap was a favorite, read many times but treasured no less for it. They did this nearly every rainy morning. Rhiannon would find snacks and get the fire going, and Nadine would make them tea, and the next few hours would pass in blissful silence as they read, their bare feet tucked against one another on the loveseat. It had become a routine of the sweetest kind, a dance she knew by heart, and she had yet to tire. “Good for reading.”

“That, too.” Rhiannon’s gaze drifted back to the window. “It looks like a whole different world, doesn’t it?”

It did, Nadine had to admit – a low-hanging fog shrouded the empty streets and somber buildings, leaving everything quiet and still aside from the thrum of pouring rain. Up in the highest reaches of the city, the keep was barely visible, enshrined in vapor. It looked like something out of a fairytale, a castle in the clouds. “It’s lovely.”

“I like knowing the plants are being taken care of,” Rhiannon said dreamily. “It always smells so good, and everything is so green.”

Carefully, Nadine closed her book and set it aside, next to her cup on the sill. Rhiannon made a startled little noise when Nadine kissed her, but it quickly turned into one of delight, her arms twining around her lover’s neck, and for a minute there was nothing but warmth and falling rain. Rhiannon’s cheeks were a little pink when she pulled back, looking very pleased indeed.

“What was that for?”

“Nothing in particular,” Nadine said, pressing their foreheads together. “Just remembering how much I like you.”

“Oh,” Rhiannon said, and kissed her nose. “I like you too.” The scent of freshly-baked goods wafted through the doorway, sweet and savory in equal measure, and she straightened up, snapping her book shut. “Do you want to go see what’s for lunch?”

Nadine grinned, twining their fingers together. “I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
